


The Stag Night

by Bloodyloveletters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodyloveletters/pseuds/Bloodyloveletters
Summary: The story of how John finally found out for sure that Sherlock didn't love him and of how John finally broke Sherlock's heart.





	

“It’s beautiful, Sherlock,” Lestrade looked up at the suddenly very innocent looking man before him, as if he had been transported back to his childhood, looking for praise from his parents and teachers. He had just finished reading the final draft of Sherlock’s speech for John’s wedding.  
“So John will like it?”  
“John will love it. He’s sentimental so he’ll probably cry,” seeing Sherlock’s confusion, Lestrade continued, “In the good way. He’ll be happy, is what I’m trying to say. Add something about the stag night, though. I’m sure everyone would love to hear that I had to get you out a jail cell the next morning.”  
Sherlock chuckled dryly, but turned his eyes away from Lestrade, looking at nothing in particular. His mind had gone somewhere else but this was hardly unusual behaviour for Sherlock so Lestrade ignored it. He was probably just remembering the stag night.

Sherlock had known it was expected he include a story from the stag night. But he hadn’t even spoken to John about the events of that night, and while he knew he certainly couldn’t tell a real account, he wasn’t sure if he could, or should, tell an abridged version. If he did, he ought to show John what he was planning to say, in case he’d told Mike or Harry, or anyone else, a story of what had happened. After all, they had to match up. He would need to make sure they had their stories straight. But that would involve bringing up the stag night to John, which he planned to never do. Based on his silence on the matter, neither did John. The stag night could ruin John’s wedding, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do.

Sherlock returned to his present reality, “Thanks, I’ll include that,” He looked back at Lestrade, smiled and led him to the door, but Lestrade stopped before reaching the hallway.  
“You sure you’re okay making this speech?” Lestrade asked, trying to keep his voice light.  
“Of course. I have no problem with public speaking,” said Sherlock, mouth still firmly set in a smile.  
“Okay, but it’s okay if you’re not completely happy with this.”  
“I’m more than happy to make a speech at John’s wedding.”  
“Not the speech,” Lestrade replied, his voice verging on irritated but he took a breath and levelled his tone, “With John getting married.”  
Sherlock maintained his perfectly empty smile, “Don’t worry, I understand that John will have a regular married life to live, but that won’t change our friendship. I have talked about this to several important people in both me and John’s life, including with John himself.” It sounded rehearsed, often repeated.  
“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed, “That’s part of it.”  
He had given up when he looked up at the impossibly stubborn man before him to see that his mask of pleased indifference had cracked just a fraction. Sherlock mustn't have known that Lestrade had worked it out. Seeing his chance, Lestrade continued, “John wouldn’t ask you to do this, you know. If he knew. Knew how you-” but even before he reached the end of his sentence, the mask was glued firmly to Sherlock’s high cheekbones again.  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Geoff.”  
“Good. Well. I’m here if you need any more help. With anything. John Watson is not your only friend, mate,” and with that, he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and strode stiffly out of Baker Street.

-x-

From: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk  
To: JohnWatson1@gmail.com

~~Dear John~~  
~~Dr John Watson~~  
~~John~~  
~~I am writing to~~  
~~We ought to talk about~~  
~~We can’t ignore this forever~~  
~~I-~~

John,  
Please see attached document  
SH

 _Attachment:_ Stag Night  
My account of the stag night in the Best Man’s speech will be as follows  
\- My attempts to keep us from getting too drunk  
\- Your attempts to ensure it  
\- We go home early and play the post-it note game we played at Christmas  
\- Mrs Hudson comes upstairs to say a client has arrived  
\- We talk to client  
\- We go to the flat of the Mayfly Man  
\- We are arrested and Lestrade had to remove us from holding  
Does this differ significantly from any account you have told?

 _Send?_ **Ok.**

 

Two days later, just a day before the wedding, Sherlock received an equally short email from John, sent from his work email at the surgery.

From: DrJWatson@Marylebonemedical.org.uk  
To: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk

Sherlock,  
This is fine by me.  
John

-x-

Sherlock’s best man speech went well, he thought. The initial, written and rehearsed, part was very well received. John and Mary were both pleased and it got a positive reaction from the guests. Molly even took him aside afterwards to say how beautiful it was. He had not spoilt John’s wedding. No one was the least bit suspicious about his recount of the stag night either. John was happy. The second half of the speech, the more off-piste part, was not so bad either. He had solved two cases and saved Major Sholto’s life. And still managed not to ruin John’s wedding.

Sherlock Holmes would do anything for John Watson, to make him happy. And that included giving a heartfelt Best Man’s speech while watching John, his John, make a vow to love someone else. So he did. He smiled through the day, and the months beforehand for that matter. He poured himself into table decorations. He composed a Waltz for John’s first dance, and played it too. He even taught John to dance. He congratulated him that he was going to become a father. And then he left, because he couldn’t quite take any more of it.

Sherlock got back to Baker Street at just past midnight. It was still and empty, even more so than usual as Mrs Hudson was still enjoying the night do. Over the past few months he’d gotten used to John not being in the flat, so that didn’t bother him anymore, or so he told himself now. He picked up his laptop from where it had been discarded yesterday. It opened to the document of his speech. He wanted to slam down the lid and throw the computer against the mantelpiece, but instead he sat and read it again. Read it over and over. And at some point he started typing.

-x-

_Best Man Speech Alternative Final Draft_

_John Watson is a different man when drunk. I have seen it plenty of times and can conclude he undergoes the following changes. He’s less stubborn, more confident, more open, more impulsive. This is not a good thing – it can lead to dangerous or damaging situations and actions, and while John believes it to be enjoyable, he does not always appreciate the outcomes of his decisions while drunk to this level._

_I saw these changes most significantly on the night of John’s stag do. Well aware of his changes in character, I asked Molly Hooper to calculate the perfect intake to allow John to have a good time, without leading to destructive or impulsive decisions. But John was not on board for this. He seemed to believe that tonight, just weeks before his wedding, he needed to lower his inhibitions and act impulsively. So he spiked his drinks, and mine for that matter, with shots of higher concentration alcohol than I was allowing for. This was his first mistake, but John made a second, far larger mistake that night._

Sherlock immediately deleted this draft, and instead typed a list for Mycroft to find.

-x-

John breathed heavily, leaning against the cold bricks the alley they had made a brisk exit into. Sherlock stood next to him, similarly out of breath, but mostly angry about being pulled away from his opponent.  
“I know Ash,” John imitated, mocking Sherlock’s slurred speech and posh accent that came out especially when he was drunk. He placed a hand on the wall next to Sherlock’s arm and soon he was bent double laughing. Sherlock started laughing too, despite his irritation, he had always been unable to keep a straight face to John’s infectious laughter. But Sherlock’s fits of laughter overwhelmed his unsteady body and he leant too far forward, long arms flying out to try to regain his balance. Sherlock, while normally graceful, was not in total control of his body. Luckily, John was there to catch him.  
“Come on, time for home, I think,” John smiled widely at Sherlock as he returned him to standing.  
“You don’t live there anymore, John,” Sherlock pointed out, flicking his wrist and poking John in his chest, still making corrections despite his spinning head.  
“Hmm, you’re right as usual,” John sighed, “it- feels like home- though.”  
“Well,” Sherlock was thrown by the comment, and paused now before shrugging, “Let’s go home.” John didn’t answer, instead he just pulled Sherlock’s arm round his shoulder, as if to support the much taller man, but he was just as drunk as Sherlock so it really served no purpose. But nonetheless, this is how they shuffled out onto the main road, giggling a little as they nearly toppled over, to flag down a taxi.

John climbed into the taxi ahead of Sherlock, using all his concentration to speak clearly to the cabbie, “221B Baker Street.”  
Sherlock followed John, missing the curb and falling forward into the back seat of the cab. John just watched as Sherlock tried helplessly to untangle his stupidly long limbs and right himself, but his body heavy with beer and liquor wouldn’t cooperate and in the end, after a few huffs from the cabbie, he pulled the door closed with his foot and scooted up to lie across the back seats. His head rested on John’s thigh. The ride was similar to any they had before, and yet completely different. They never failed to make each other laugh though and this was even more true when drunk. They giggled for a long time after that, but eventually it ended with Sherlock hiding his face in John’s jacket when his laughing became too much and his sides ached. John, absentmindedly twisting Sherlock’s curls around his fingers. Eventually, they became quiet. Neither had space in their racing minds think about what they were doing, not while John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair, and John could feel his thigh burning where Sherlock’s head was leant. They’d deny it like their life depended on it (and with Mary Morstan one day it might) that despite being full of drink, their minds felt clearer than they had in a long time.

-x-

 _Draft 1_  
From:  JohnWatson1@gmail.com  
To: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk

Sherlock  
We need to talk about this. It matters. Or at least to me it does. I know I made myself clear in the cell afterwards, and you made yourself clear the next morning. Never mind, why am I doing this?

 _Delete draft?_ **Ok.**

-x-

John walked up to the door of 221B, reaching into his pocket for keys, before realising he didn’t have any, anymore. Baker Street had its locks picked in some case in the past few months, and new keys had been made. John never got one. This really wasn’t his home anymore. Sherlock paid the cabbie, who had been very excited to discover that it was Sherlock Holmes he was delivering to his famous 221B residence.  
“See, John! I’m famous,” he said, putting all the emphasis on the final word.  
“Yeah?” John raised an eyebrow.  
“Yep!” Sherlock swaggered up to the top step and fumbled about for his keys before John reached in his pocket and took them for him.  
“I have an international reputation, John.”  
“Sure you do,” John continued still finding it frustratingly difficult to fit the key in the lock, painfully aware of how close he was stood to Sherlock as they shared the top step.  
“International reputation!” Sherlock shouted, but John quickly reached up and put a finger against Sherlock’s lips.  
“You’ll wake Mrs Hudson,” he almost whispered, although completely unnecessarily.  
“Hudders won’t mind,” Sherlock said through John’s finger, his lips pressing against it as he did so.

Finally, they opened the door to Baker Street. John removed his coat and hung it on his hook, that wasn’t his, and Sherlock tackled the stairs. Eventually they both made it into Baker Street unharmed, Sherlock collapsing on the sofa by the door.  
“Remember the first night? When you texted me to come back and you were lying there when I came in,”  
“You seem to,” Sherlock’s sat up to look at John who was still stood in the middle of the room. His tone creeped into suggestive, as it had many times before, often ignored.  
“Why shouldn’t I?” If Sherlock’s tone had creeped, John’s had walked confidently. His step towards Sherlock didn’t help.  
“Just a night,” Sherlock said lightly.  
“Wasn’t just a night,” John’s voice was instantly lower  
“No it wasn’t, you’re right.”  
“Wow, can I record that? Play it to fall asleep to,” John took another step.  
“Do you like to fall asleep to the sound of my voice?” Sherlock stood up now. About two strides apart.  
“Yeah, you’re so posh it sounds like a Radio Four dramatisation,” John eyes were burning into Sherlock’s now, “Or it would, if it wasn’t for that cute little lisp of yours.”  
John raised an eyebrow.  
“I don’t have a lisp,” his voice was deep and so low he was surprised it could be heard over the thundering heart in his chest.  
“Yes you do,” John took another step.  
“No I don’t,” Sherlock’s world was falling around his ears and they were talking about his stupid fucking lisp.  
“You do”  
“Don’t,” Sherlock’s turn to take a step. They chests were only an inch apart.  
“Say it,” John’s tipped his head back to look Sherlock fully in the eyes, a smirk spread across his face.  
“Say what?” Sherlock played innocent, staring back at John with equal intensity.  
“You know.”  
“You’re right. Happy now?” faking irritation, indifference.  
“Thanks, but that’s not what I meant.”  
Sherlock’s heart went from his mouth to his stomach in what had to be a land speed record. He leant slightly towards John, but stayed silent.  
“I just need you to say it.”  
The words I love you echoed around Sherlock’s head for a moment, but he settled on something safer. He closed his eyes, and, almost in a whisper said, “Yes.”

-x-

 _Draft 2_  
From:  DrJWatson@Marylebonemedical.org.uk  
To: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk

Sherlock  
I don’t know how you can just ignore what happened, but it’s you, so I should hardly be surprised. I kid myself into thinking you actually care about me and it’s my fault at this point. I should learn from my mistakes. You wrote me a fucking 3-line email and attached a document. How could you do that? It’s crazy. You’re crazy. You did pretend to die on me for 2 bloody years. I’m sorry that I even kidded myself that you might still want me the next morning.

 

You’re getting married, John. You’re having an extramarital affair with an email server. Grow up.

 _Delete draft?_ **Ok.**

-x-

Their lips met and it was euphoric. It was passionate and tense and full of over 5 years of emotion and it tore Sherlock to pieces and put him back together so fast he could almost feel tears in his eyes.  
Then it was heated and fast and desperate and John could feel every touch he hadn’t given flowing into the finger tips that now grasped Sherlock’s lapels and pulled them as close as he could manage. In a still drunken, dream-like state, both forgot why they’d waited so long.

“I though I heard-“ Mrs Hudson paused for only a second before continuing like she hadn’t just seen them break apart, “you come home early. There’s a client here.”  
The silence waiting for their response felt like a hundred years, neither as quick as Mrs Hudson in her decision to ignore what she’d seen.  
“Ah, yes, Hudders,” Sherlock said eventually, “What time is it?”  
“You’ve been out about three hours,” she regarded them quietly before adding, “I’ll send her through, in a minute, if you want to prepare yourselves first.” The look she gave them both was so sad they both immediately felt a wave of guilt. That’s not why she gave that look, though.

-x-

 _Draft 3_  
From:  DrJWatson@Marylebonemedical.org.uk  
To: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk

I fucking loved you, you maniac. You died and you let me think that I’d never get to tell you that. And now I’m getting married tomorrow, and I still fucking love you and I’ll never tell you anyway.  
Unless I press send.

 _Send?_ **Cancel.**

 _Delete draft?_ **Ok.**

 

 _Draft 4 (final)_  
From:  DrJWatson@Marylebonemedical.org.uk  
To: SherlockHolmes@yahoo.co.uk

Sherlock,  
This is fine by me.  
John

 _Send?_ **Ok.**

-x-

Sherlock was able to use the real version of the stag night for his speech from here onwards. Or at least as he remembered it. However, John Watson, despite being shorter and a little older, had gone on plenty of away matches with his university’s rugby team, so had seen the bottom of a far greater number of pint glasses. While his memories of their night in lock up were perfectly clear, Sherlock had lost them in the haze of lager and jaeger bombs.

Sherlock can’t remember John reaching out and taking his hand while sat in a North London jail cell.  
“Did you mean it?” John had whispered, almost inaudible. But Sherlock can’t remember nodding in response. He can’t remember squeezing John’s hand then, or John trying to blearily sit up and press a kiss into the curls that sat tousled on the side of his head. He can’t remember John Watson’s warm breath ghosting his cheek as he whispered, “I always loved you.”

Worst of all, he never remembered John’s last words before they both fell into an uncomfortable alcohol fuelled sleep.  
“Tomorrow, if you still mean it, say so. If you don’t, then just don’t say anything. And then we’ll know.”

Sherlock didn’t remember this, but John did remember the conversation they had the next morning.

-x-

“Thanks for- well, you know- an evening,” John was still heavy from sleep but he hadn’t forgotten the importance of the next words Sherlock would say. He was hesistant, nervous. It must have been visible on his face. Sherlock just looked at him with his piercing blue eyes.  
“It was awful,” Sherlock walked away from John, hiding his dark expression. He nearly ruined John’s wedding, he thought. John was worried he was expecting something between them, but Sherlock knew that could never happen.  
Quickly, John attempted to regain some composure. “Yep,” he nodded, “Was gonna pretend but-“ he didn’t have the strength to finish that sentence.  
Sherlock was already talking about the client from last night, though, and John simply followed him, finally knowing for certain that Sherlock Holmes would never love him.

"What a wasted opportunity," Sherlock muttered, referring to the Mayfly Man case. The irony fell on deaf ears.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for your comments  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://quietasfolk.tumblr.com/)


End file.
